


True Words Are Rare Birds

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Genital Worship, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: After the events ofOf Banquets, Bastards and BurialsGeralt doesn't just leave...
Relationships: Ermion | Mousesack/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt of Rivia/Mousesack
Comments: 23
Kudos: 53
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	True Words Are Rare Birds

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this prompt over at the Witcher Kink Meme](https://witcherkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/429.html?thread=2477#cmt2477): _**Geralt/Mousesack, genital worship:** I have this image of Geralt nuzzling Mousesack's balls or mouthing warm kisses all over them. Something sexy involving playing with his balls and growling his name at the same time._

So much remains unsaid between them – _Where have you been all those years?_ , _Why did you never come to find me?_ , and perhaps most importantly: _I missed you, brother._

It's been a long time since they last saw each other, and there are so many things to talk about, so many stories to tell and adventures to recount, but Geralt hasn't Mousesack's talent for words or his penchant for speaking his mind, so his hand on the druid's shoulder and a long, concerned gaze has to suffice.

“Be careful, old friend,” he says instead of a good-bye and takes his leave, reluctance heavy in every step, but the urge to escape this cursed palace every bit as strong. Get away from this imposition of fate, from history repeating itself over and over and over again, the same story twisted and skewed, though still recognizable. Still eerily familiar.

“Geralt, wait!”

There it is, the honesty he always admired in Mousesack, a longing in those two words so raw it makes Geralt stop in his tracks – despite himself, despite his best resolutions to leave, _now_ and _alone_.

He waits for Mousesack to catch up with him before he turns around and then the druid's hand is in his hair, strong, sure fingers against the back of his skull, and he pulls and Geralt lets him. He lowers his head and their mouths touch, chastely, brotherly at first. Mousesack's lips are still as soft as they were the first time they kissed, so very long ago, when they were hardly more than boys, huddled together against the cold, their breath hot and damp against each other's faces. He didn't have a beard back then, but apart from that, there's hardly any difference. He still smells the same, like home, like wood smoke and leather, musk and harvest, and he tastes the same, too: ale, and sweetness, and childhood memories, and Gerald loses himself in it, their tongues sliding together, slick and warm as ever, and his heart aches.

It might be a while until they'll meet again – if ever. Even the lives of druids and witchers can come to a sudden unexpected end. The dangers may be different, a dagger in your back, poison in your drink or a kikimora talon through the chest, a basilik's gaze, but the result is the same. Life is fragile, and it's always wise to seize the day, not put off an overdue conversation or a bit of stolen bliss.

“Stay,” Mousesack whispers between kisses, “at least for the night.” And Geralt can't bring himself to refuse.

__

The chamber they assigned him is cozy, small but luxuriously furnished as is befitting for a royal advisor, even if he's only a guest (or was, until this very evening). The best of it, though, is that Mousesack has it all to himself. 

A fire crackles in the hearth, its warm glow illuminating the room. There is no other source of light, but it's enough for Geralt's enhanced vision to see that, for however long the Skelligans have stayed at Cintra's court, Mousesack has used the time to make himself at home here. Papers and books are strewn all over the place, potion bottles and herbs covering every surface. In the midst of the chaos there are several jugs, flasks and decanters – which, judging by the smell, hold (or held) several kinds of alcohol, wine, mead, brandy, vodka.

Looks like the wedding celebration has been going on for a while now.

Geralt watches with a raised eyebrow as Mousesack walks over and grabs one of the bottles. 

“Care for another drink?” he asks and without waiting for an answer pours two cups, picks them up, thrusts one into Geralt's hand and takes a large gulp himself before he slumps down on the bed and looks expectantly at him.

Geralt only nips at his cup before he sets it aside. It's a sort of pear-brandy, not what he expected, and not bad either, but he was serious when he said he had enough of the partying. Or at least _that_ kind of partying. 

The way Mousesack watches him, keen, with a tell-tale glint in his eyes, is invitation enough. He shrugs out of his jacket and raises his hands to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

For the first time that evening, Geralt is glad for the outfit Jaskier made him wear. Sad silk trader or not, it's significantly less hassle to get out of than his usual armour and he's done long before Mousesack has even finished unfastening his tunic. Which may, in part, have something to do with how much of his attention is captured by Geralt undressing.

Every other moment he pauses to marvel at the sight, his fingers resting against the buttons of his garment as though he has forgotten what he's doing. Geralt would be flattered if he were susceptible to flattery, and he'd blush if he were still a lad but as it is such admiration is merely a hold-up. He has no time to waste on bashfulness, he knows what he wants and so he pushes his trousers unceremoniously down his hips just as Mousesack wiggles out of his tunic. 

Predictably, the druid's fingers come to another halt as he watches Geralt's cock jump free, as hard and eager as it ever was for him.

Geralt doesn't have to glance down to be aware of how he looks, Mousesack's expression tells him all he needs to know. Admiration is mingling with unbridled hunger on his face.

“The years have been kind to you,” Mousesack says as he lets his gaze glide up the witcher's body from his half-hard, rosy cock to his taut stomach to the bulging pecs, taking in every chiselled muscle.

Geralt only grunts. He may not look the almost ninety years that passed since he was born, but his youthful appearance is not a result of kindness. On the contrary – it's hardship, past and present, he has to thank for this shape, poison and magic and strife. There's no room for excess in his life. Most of the time he eats because he is hungry, he drinks because he is thirsty, he sleeps because he's tired and he fucks because the urge must be sated, but the occasions for indulgence and pleasure are few and far between. 

But as far as fitness goes, perhaps his lifestyle did preserve his youth… 

Time definitely left its mark on Mousesack. He is still lean, sinewy, like a man half his age, but he's not as toned as he once was. Gravity has begun to take its toll and there's a softness to him now that Geralt finds almost luxurious, delectable and tempting. If anything it makes Geralt want him more. He wants to cover every inch of his skin in kisses, rub his cheek against the tender insides of his thighs, nuzzle at his crotch, let his smell wash over him and fill his senses with the scent of home. 

But first he has to get him out of his damn clothes. 

“You've got slow, old man,” he says as he kneels down between his thighs, pushing the druid's hands away to unlace his breeches himself. His deft witcher fingers make short work of the fastenings while Mousesack watches him, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“And you're still as impatient as you were as a boy,” he muses, reaching for the cup he abandoned at the bedside. “And I thought that by now _someone_ would have managed to teach you that patience is a virtue.”

Geralt smiles a wolfish smile that's all white, sharp teeth and slides his hands under the waistband of Mousesack's pants. “And I always thought you appreciated me being eager.”

And sure enough when he closes his fingers around the druid's cock, Mousesack's head falls back and a low groan escapes his throat that can hardly be misunderstood as a sign of protest. He quickly stiffens in Geralt's grasp and he only too readily raises his hips to allow the witcher to get him out of the remainder of his clothes. 

__

Mousesack's skin is warm to his touch, golden and smooth, so very much unlike his own and he appreciates the difference, marvels at the stark contrast of softness and calluses, tan and pallor as he trails his fingertips up the inside of his thigh, causing the druid's legs to fall open for him. 

It's familiar territory, they did this a lot when they were younger, fucked the night away, tiring themselves out by relentlessly chasing their pleasure, stroking and kissing and sucking until they were so worn out they fell asleep on top of each other, sated and sticky with seed and sweat.

It was a long time ago and despite his eagerness, Geralt doubts he's still up for a marathon like he used to. What he has in mind is simpler, slow and languid. His hand comes to rest on Mousesack's hipbone, his thumb rubbing circles into the skin, before he lowers his head and places an open-mouthed kiss to his groin, right there, in the junction between thigh and abdomen, a promise for more.

Mousesack's breathing grows heavier. His cock twitches as it fills out, just a few inches from Geralt's face, dark with blood, silky as rose petals. It's a pretty cock, but for the moment he's more interested in the full weight of Mousesack's balls. He leans in, his face hovering over the tender skin for a moment, giving the druid a notion of the damp warmth of his mouth.

Mousesack draws in a deep breath. His hand comes up to cup the back of Geralt's neck, gently, without pressure, but Geralt doesn't need extra motivation. He brushes his lips over the sac, feathery, only the slightest hint of wetness until his mouth finds the plump fullness of a testicle and closes around it. Mousesack's finger tighten against the base of the skull as he nips at him, careful, tender, in worship more than actual stimulation.

“Geralt–”

He hums in response, nose pressing into the hay-warmth of Mousesack's pubic hair. He was right. He does smell like home. Affection swells in his chest as he nuzzles his crotch with closed eyes, his lips tugging softly at Mousesack's balls, careful to spare him the coarseness of his stubble. There's a mindlessness to the act, a beastly quality, to sniff and to taste and to lick Mousesack's genitals. It's easy to get lost in it, get drunk on the scent of musk and soap and pleasure.

Above him, Mousesack sighs, apparently quite pleased with Geralt's efforts. But _quite pleased_ is not what he's aiming for. While it's nice to get soft sighs and fingers playing idly with his hair, he wants more, he wants some of that rawness Mousesack showed him earlier, he wants emotion and honesty, and so he sticks out his tongue and laps all the way from the crinkled skin of his hole up the seam of his sac to the root of his cock.

“Fuck, Geralt...” Mousesack's fingers flex in his hair. 

So that put a crack in his self-restraint. Good. 

Geralt does it again, this time paying extra attention to Mousesack's hole, licking it thoroughly, savouring its salty-bitterness and how his tongue makes Mousesack's legs twitch and his fingers dig into his skull, truthful at least in their urgency. He wants _more_ , he always loved it best when Geralt pushed his tongue into him, sloppy and eager, until he was loose and slick and trembling with anticipation.

But this time Geralt won't do it unless he begs for it.

It's what he wants out of this most – the mighty druid, advisor to kings, forgoing his pride, the certainty that he can still do this to someone who's every bit his equal, who's as old and as experienced and yet will lose his mind over the kind of pleasure that Geralt can give him. 

The druid slings his legs over Geralt's broad shoulders, his heels digging into his back, his fingers painful in Geralt's hair, and while Geralt doesn't mind a bit of pain he can't have Mousesack take charge like that. 

“Mousesack–”

The warning clear as day in his growl, the druid's grip on him slackens. 

“Why do you always have to be such a damn tease?” he groans, every word forced out between ragged pants.

Geralt only hums non-committally, his lips lightly touching Mousesack's balls in what must be the most frustrating fashion. Mousesack's hips rise off the mattress automatically, pushing closer to Geralt's mouth, but again Geralt growls a warning and Mousesack sighs again, this time with frustration.

“Do you want me to beg, is that it?” 

Geralt looks up at him from between his legs, golden eyes meeting brilliant blue, and Mousesack reads the answer off his face.

“Fine then,” he says with a reluctant exhale. “I'll ask for it.”

“Ask nicely,” Geralt bites out from between clenched teeth. It's not as though the begging is strictly necessary – every line in Mousesack's body tells him how much he wants Geralt's tongue in his ass or his mouth around his dick. There's a stain of colour in his cheeks, and his cock is stiff and flushed, the foreskin drawn back and the head wet with the first drops of precum.

“Please, Geralt–”

Geralt presses his tongue against Mousesack's balls and drags it slowly, so very slowly upwards. This time he doesn't stop at the base of his cock but licks all the way up to the tip. 

“Please what?”

“Oh for fuck's sake, suck my damn cock already.”

“That's not what I'd call _asking nicely_ ,” Geralt says, but he steps up his game nonetheless and flicks his tongue against Mousesack's frenulum, swiping it underneath the crown, eliciting another low, tortured curse from the druid. He does it again and again, until precum is dripping from the head of Mousesack's cock onto his belly and his fingers are clenching and unclenching in his hair in an attempt not to grab too tight again. His free hand jerks towards his cock as if he wants to take care of matters himself, but Geralt won't have it. 

He slaps his hand away, clicking his tongue. “For someone who called _me_ impatient, you don't seem very accomplished at self-control yourself.”

Mousesack takes a deep breath, trying to suppress the involuntary reactions of his body. “Please, Geralt, I need...”

“Hmm?”

“I don't care what you do, but do something, anything...”

Geralt's lips curl into a sly smile. “Anything?”

He gives Mousesack a moment to imagine what he might have in mind for them – all the wonderful, filthy things he could do: fuck him with his tongue until he comes, or flip him over onto his stomach, push inside him without more preparation, spearing him onto his cock, thrusting into him until he sees stars. He savours the certainty that at this point, he could do anything and Mousesack wouldn't complain, on the contrary, he'd welcome whatever Geralt chooses to do to him, no matter how rough. But roughness is not what he has in mind.

He wraps his lips around Mousesack's cock and slides them down with practised ease. The effect is immediate: Mousesack arches off the mattress, his whole body rigid with the sudden onslaught of pleasure, his fingers tightening painfully in Geralt's hair, but this time he lets him.

This time he has no capacities for chiding him, for doing anything really than following his instincts, getting lost in the smell and taste and feel of Mousesack's cock in his mouth. Arousal is like thunder in his ears, heat pooling at the base of his spine. His own dick is full and heavy between his legs and he longs to close his fist around it, stroke himself in the same rhythm in which he sucks Mousesack's cock.

But first things first. 

His fingers circling the base of Mousesack's cock he sets a steady pace, moving up and down, steady, not too fast, not slow. He still remembers how the druid likes it. How could he forget? It doesn't take long like that. He can sense it in the tension in Mousesack's body, in the salty taste on his tongue, the trembling of his muscles, the little jerks of his hips.

“Geralt–,” he says in warning, but Geralt only purrs, a low rumble in his chest, and sucks harder, taking him down deeper, and Mousesack yanks at his hair as if he wants to tear it out, the pain of it running straight to Geralt's own cock, causing it to pulse with impatience. Only a matter of a few more moments, he tells himself as he swallows Mousesack down, and the druid goes rigid, and then, with another low groan, he comes in a rush of salt down Geralt's throat.

Geralt waits for the spasms to subside and for Mousesack to loosen his grip in his hair before he slides off him with a wet pop, quite satisfied with his work. Mousesack's skin glows golden in the light, his hair sticks to his temples and his lips look bitten raw. Just the sight he hoped for.

Geralt scrambles to his knees so he looms over the druid, muscles rippling as he takes hold of himself, the weight and shape so familiar he'd think little of it if it wasn't for the look Mousesack gives him. 

The druid licks his lips, eyes fixed to Geralt's cock. “Don't make me regret I didn't _beg_ you to fuck me.”

“You did offer – in a way.” Geralt's voice is even deeper than usual, rougher, as he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, that sensitive spot on the underside, before he gives himself the first, firm stroke.

“You still could...” Mousesack trails his fingers down his chest, half absent-minded, half seductive, and for a second, Geralt is tempted. 

He tugs at himself with more urgency, his fist moving up and down the thick shaft. He averts his gaze from Mousesack for a moment to glance down at himself. Even in his large hands, his cock looks huge. It would take time to prepare his friend for this if he didn't want to hurt him (and he doesn't), and he can sense the tiredness coming off him – Mousesack's drowsy and drunk and sated. As he should be. 

There's no need to drag this out any longer. It's late. A long night is drawing to a close. Outside, behind the shutters and heavy drapery keeping out the cold, a new day is about to break. 

“Just look at me,” Geralt says – as if Mousesack needs an invitation. His gaze is burning on Geralt's skin, hot, curious, and that is all Geralt will have him do. When the druid reaches out to touch him, he bats his hand away. 

It feels self-indulgent to have an audience, and yet strangely stripped-down, reduced and sober at the same time. There is nothing but the pressure and friction of his own hand, pleasure simmering, boiling in the pit of his stomach, and Mousesack watching, eyes gleaming with admiration, with a subdued, lazy sort of desire. 

Geralt's cock slides through his fingers, slick with precum, his grasp tighter, his strokes faster. He knows how to bring himself off quickly, efficiently. The drag of skin on skin almost punishing, calluses rough against the tender flesh.

“Geralt–” Mousesack's voice is low and rough with emotion. “If only you could see yourself… You look so...”

But what Geralt looks like he will never know. As Mousesack bites his bottom lip, for once lost for words, orgasm flares up inside the witcher like a jet of flame and with a guttural sound he comes in long, silver spurts all over Mousesack's chest and belly. 

He's careful in his aim, painting the druid thoroughly in his seed, finally squeezing his cock to milk even the last drops from the tip. They drip onto Mousesack's stomach like mercury, and only then Geralt bends over, leaning in for a kiss, and Mousesack pulls him down on top of him, sealing their bodies together, sticky and hot.

“Fuck,” Mousesack says, breathless from the kiss when Geralt pulls away. “I did miss this.”

Geralt kisses him on the lips, gently, with much more tenderness than you'd think him capable of. “So did I."

And that's as close as you can expect him to come to honesty in matters of the heart, but he knows that at least for Mousesack it will be enough.

_~_


End file.
